Guess being single and alone makes me the designated photographer.
I’m returning phones and cameras as quickly as new requests come in.
“Thank you, lass. You’re so sweet,” a little old lady says. “Are you all alone?”
“My friend was supposed to meet me, but she seems to be lost,” I answer, hoping she doesn’t think “friend” is a euphemism for the type with benefits.
“You should join us after the safety presentation,” the lady says. “We’re all classmates at our fortieth high school reunion. Look for us under the red and black balloons. We’re banning pilots.”
Why would they want to ban pilots?
I don’t get a chance to ask because they switch from fumbling for selfies to asking me to take pictures of them.
The geriatric cheerleaders jump and clap, while several creaky men get down on their hands and knees to form a pyramid. Others, who are no doubt thirty pounds heavier than high school weight, climb precariously over the wobbly row of sweating men on the floor.
The whole contraption looks doomed when the apex of the pyramid, a frail-looking Asian woman, is lifted to the top and held there by a burly man who is probably her grandson.
I grab cameras and snap pictures as fast as I can before everyone crumbles on top of each other, then rush to help them up. Knees pop and joints crack, but the reunion crowd is happy as I pass their cameras and phones back to them.
“Miss, a picture for us?” A man dangles an old-fashioned digital camera from his wrist, and I’m surprised at all the strangers trusting me with their electronics.
It isn’t until the ship clears out of the Los Angeles Harbor before I pat all my pockets and check my purse and then panic.
My phone!
It’s gone.
Oh my…
Frantic, I elbow and twist my way back to my cabin. Hopefully, I left it on my bunk with my carry-on.
My heart thudding and thumping, I barge into the cabin and find a dark-haired man sitting on my bunk.
“Oh, excuse me, I must have opened the wrong door.” I back out and shut the door, even while one part of my brain reminds me that my access pass worked and my luggage is inside.
The man opens the door and winks. “No, you didn’t. Jade sends you her regrets. I’m her cousin, Jordan, and I’ve come to take her place.”
I gape at the dark-haired man with a mischievous glint in his chocolate-colored eyes. A pair of aviator sunglasses hangs from his shirt pocket.
He’s hot and sexy, no question about it, but there’s something else about him I can’t put my finger on. Oh, sure, he witnessed my sex toy debacle, and he’s amused.
I snap my fingers and it all comes back to me. Jade’s cousin was the snot-nosed kid who tormented me in grade school. “Jordan Reed. I know you from third grade, you punk.”
“You still remember,” he states as if he’s completely aware that no one could ever forget the spit wads and pieces of bubble gum he stuck in my hair.
Actually, I wouldn’t have recognized him if I’d passed him on the street. While his third-grade self was the terror of Miss Vidovich’s class, this current incarnation is a mouth-watering hunk: thick, dark, wavy hair styled and gelled, a small golden hoop earring in one earlobe, a sharp Puckish chin and dark, broody brows over a straight, strong nose.
“You terrorized me the one year you stayed with your aunt and uncle.” I stab my finger at him accusingly. “Why are you here now? Is this some sort of joke?”
“Joke’s on both of us,” Jordan says, his lopsided grin higher on the left side than the right.
My naughty mind immediately wonders if he cocks left down below, too.
“No, you’re the joker. Not me. I’m a serious socialite wannabe.” I can’t even keep a straight face at the title I held while trying to marry Stephen Sommers the Third.
“Then we’re in luck,” Jordan says. “I’m also a hoity-toity one-percenter wannabe. Jade sent me to cheer you up and pretend to be your husband. What’dya say we rock this boat and show old, stiff Stephen what he missed out on?”
“Oh, no, I don’t give a crocodile’s patootie what Stephen thinks. I’m off social media. Off the internet, and oh, I lost my cell phone, too. Did you happen to see it lying among my stuff?”
